This first set is from various points around Cape May: Corson’s Inlet in Strathmere NJ, the night photo is looking out from Harborview Park in Cape May Proper, the rest of the photos are from Stone Harbor Point, Stone Harbor NJ. If you have any questions about the area or anything feel free to ask, I have been going there for basically my entire life – but always manage to find something new to check out! This is the REAL Jersey Shore…
late autumn eve
not many a late november day I can stand outside in shorts, not that this is balmy weather but this is not the bite of winter, by all accounts a miserable day, stuck inside watching the rain, on call for work so I was distracted by customers rather than to dwell on the mopey grey of the day, only now, as I venture outside do I see the pools and puddles from passing mild storm, and, oddly, I am oddly enamored by the scene, the major maple trees are totally barren of leaves, but my japanese maple still boasts deep red extensions, framed against the heavens, well, framed against my porch light, there is no magical moonlight out tonight, so man made light will suffice (and does), as I look to the trees, the droplets reflect tiny colors into themselves, the gentle drip of remnants of rain collecting and falling to the ground, some decide to pay a more personal visit on my crown and shirt, I don’t mind, I listen for the sounds, there is the low hum of human din, almost like rushing water but less wild, a distant horn of a train, somehow always seems to complement the fog, this is not silence, no, there is a constant level of low noise, which in a way, is soothing, the occasional car wooshes up the street, headlights screaming against the whole backdrop, an unwanted interloper but only a momentary disruptor, back to that low hum, maybe it is the major roadway just there past the last street light, I can see the streaks like some particle collider speeding by, something like time lapse sped up film, a blur and still, I imagine if I would be more satisfied in the middle of some pasture, in the middle of veritable nowhere, but no, this will do fine, the home of my birth, the land my feet have known to walk, my eyes grown up on, my ears the familiar, and on the other side of the world, or universe someone else is taking the time to stand … and absorb in what it means to be home.
the shades of slumber
the spectrum of sleep
the wabbling wonder
has once again tilted seas
for once again the blanket lies
out upon my yard
a quilt of life
patchwork stitched – then gone
shadows cast
where they may reside
measures the distance
drawn out from the sun
intoxicated by spin
so here I am
on the days where
they pull longer
notes: do shadows influence us? subconsciously? I was driving to work and this revelation sort of washed over me… I mean I had the time to think about it being stuck in traffic.. but noticed how the shadows have been creeping one way, it all seems so sudden if you pay attention, the pavement is nearly a mirror, the earth does what the earth does… shadows are like anything else of matter, they want more, or is that our own protection, a backup drive for our bodies from the sun ?
the arrival, the wind passing through the catacombs of the trees, dark shimmering waves in night, this really seems as if I should have some understanding, the sound does not seem random, but not quite planned but? is there a voice in there, language, some message? no. a song, played on the leaves as they are now, past the zenith of the beaming sun, soon to be done, a cold wind, not the refreshing one that cools in the beating sun, a chill pervades, not a warning, a harbinger for what must be, for yes, fall is coming if not already here, but my nature app does not alert me, I just have the senses given to me and the years of my own personal observation to inform me, this is one of those nights, there will be spikes, exceptions, last blazes of glory worthy of dragging all the accoutrements of peak summer out for one more time, one more shake of the sand out of pockets and crevices, maybe two, maybe three, the warm ocean water like a welcome memory, holding on to that energy quite literally in the bones of salt, and the breeze again passes, I struggle to listen, to the song, a hymn? no, a funeral dirge, but not one unexpected, not one of melancholy, no, just what must be in the natural order of things, my urge, the immediate surge is to want to fight this, the boy with his finger in the dike, the impossible odds, the romance of it, the lack of reason, but surrender feels so unnatural even when circumstance dictates that you sit back and allow the tidal wave to wash right over you.
(note to any new readers: this particular series is all stream of consciousness that I write off the cuff in one take, so take it as thus)
‘raking’
sometimes the old way of doing something is therapeutic, or am I being the old man where balls disappear because the kids are afraid to go near his yard, is that even a thing anymore? kids can explore whole alien worlds without leaving their room, has the simple joy of a bat and a ball been lost or diminished? not a moral judgement, it is a silly thing to try and drag the past into the now, things change, some for better, some for worse, some for we have no clue, but raking- something so ancient, well, as old as we are on this truly aged world that is, there is something about raking leaves, the rustle, the sweetly slight decay scent in the air from the bottom layers as you peel them away, thrush- thrush- thrush-, like a rolling airy-loose wave into a pile they flush as you go, the subtle vibration of the rake in your hands as it scrapes the scape, in this case, the old thin style, only good for raking things lightly, the head of the thing has seen better days, held in place by crooked bent nails, but this base technology still works fine, a stick with some tines, and there is satisfaction in the chore, there is just enough chill in the air to block any sweat from forming, there is just enough sun to warrant short sleeves and feel the waning warmth on your skin for at least one more day, a leaf blower is just not as satisfying (even if gratifying and practical), plus, they are loud whining machines of arcing crescendos, even the electric ones, maybe it is because I am raking on a sunday, the off day, I want to hear and feel the very pulse of fall not some infernal machine… rake… let the memories seep in, huge piles of leaves to dive in and feel the crinkle… thrush- thrush- thrush-, the satisfaction of building up a huge bunch, gazing up @ the trees to estimate the next delivery, fall is generally very quiet, except the squirrels, they are too easy to track racing through the downed leaves, most birds have gone south already, so here I am, just table setting for the coming winter, cleaning up the lost purveyors of shade, for their job is done now, I’m sure parts of me will ache tomorrow, but in a good way, in a good fashion, doing things the old way, connection to the simple, to the past, and there is satisfaction there, in something like this, raking.
driving, early evening, the days are stretching darker, yes, yes – this is the crest of autumn, leaves have fallen but there are so many trees still bursting ripe with them, of course there are the colors: the yellow, the purple, the orange, the red, and all the burnt versions in between putting on a last ditch flare before the penultimate fall and down evolution to brown (dust), but that is a couple weeks away yet, we have not yet reached the summit of the complete denuding of the arboreal population, driving at night – this is like a scene devised, laid out and mapped, planned, the leaves almost form a skirt from the curb out, a perfect and undisturbed line, exactly (or so) 4 feet, like extended orange-spotted fronds creeping onto the road separate from the curb form, my headlights reflect off the sheen left by the gentle misty rain that has drifted down from the parent fog, not a sparkle, or a shimmer of diamonds like the ocean waves @ sunset, more like individual sliver silver hands raised up on the curled tips of leaves waving ‘hey, look at me’, one last act of expression before life is drained into submission – the sleep, all this has the feel of an awake painting, and I am within the gallery, living, among the breathing-pulsing museum of the actual world, I round the familiar corners toward home, not as many decorations this year, the usual houses of course do not resist the urge, or perhaps the good intent, blow up spiders, skeletons bent, a makeshift foam graveyard, gossamer webbing swaying in the breeze like a demon child’s sinister swing, for a moment there is comfort in thought, the remembrance of halloween, youth, bouncing steps between houses, yes, this is definitely the plum of autumn, winter has not bared her full teeth set as of yet – but you know she is coming, the whispers in the slight chill let you know in passing, but this, one of those moments to savor, driving, the road lined like a pictured frame and I feel, at peace – in place – playing the part for which I was made, perfect borders remain for me to follow this familiar path, skipping street light to street light like hopscotch, let my senses embrace and marinate with the sights and sounds, one more turn and- I pull into my driveway, some of the magic seems already gone, lost… but… with care, I peel a large, intact, blood-red maple leaf off my side mirror, I hold the stem, and twirl it in my hand for a bit, to say goodbye – to a friend.
the autumn apple
reservoir of the summer sun
for within your flesh
for within your keep
the star seeds of life
key to the generations
core to root
earth to bore
the autumn apple
full and ripe
the seasons full bloom
now fully landed
upon your hand
notes… apples are a fall fruit, get it, they fall ! waka waka waka… but one of the sure sign of the fall is the apple harvest, cider and cider donuts… mmmm cider donuts…
the balance has not quite yet shifted, but surely as the days flash on by, the ground is more littered, bathed in various shades of red and yellow, all over my car window, stuck there spread eagle by autumn rain, always the maple leaf, I suppose, being a creature of the northeast I am having a singular experience, for maple is mostly the way here, quilt patch blankets of wet leaves all around, the ground, the lawn, lining the street except in the spots with the constant pounding foot traffic of cars, all these leaves have come to an end, spent the spring and summer, gathering what sunlight and shade they can, or could, depending on where they were born and placed, all in an effort to save the root cause and see through another winter’s pause, moving on into detached certainty, so the next generation might have a start and the life of the host moves on, the buds of the next generation may never know unless nutrients flow past that newly formed ring and pay attention, that anniversary, the subtle reminder that can only be truly read when cut down a thread and laid out, counted, because everything is numbers, everything is time, always right in front of us, dead fast in front of us where we can never truly reach, like a reflection in a pool, we see everything exactly as is but we can not touch the image by any means, because in a moment that exactness is gone, all these leaves, upon closer inspection, different markings, colors, spots, holes from insects or time, slight variations in size, slight variations in tribe, all in all all fall down, all in all blanket the moist autumn ground, and I may take a moment to remember, them all…
Shades of My Garden 